


Schubert and Schumann and Lapsang Souchong

by IvyDevoss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyDevoss/pseuds/IvyDevoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn’t really have friends, but if he did, they certainly would be nothing like the weird and quite possibly insane kid who’s just moved in next door with his equally crazy family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, consider checking out its companion piece [Don't Knock It Till You've Tried It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/644610/chapters/1170538) as well – it tells the same events from Castiel's POV.
> 
> I am lucky enough to have two beautiful pieces of art for this story from two very talented artists! They are linked in the notes at the end due to being slightly spoilery, but don't miss them once you've read the fic. :)

Dean’s family had barely finished unpacking their few possessions and settling into their own house when yet another new arrival upset the neighborhood. A moving truck parked in the driveway of the house right next door to the Winchesters’, and a seemingly endless procession of loud young men began trekking back and forth between it and the house, unloading furniture and boxes while constantly laughing and teasing each other. Two of them spent a good twenty minutes mock-fighting with two lamps before a voice called to them from inside the house and they stopped. (Dean observed all this from his own second-storey window, staying well hidden while able to keep an eye on all the action next door.)

Dean and Sam and their parents had moved in almost two weeks ago now, and they still hadn’t met any of their neighbors. The locals appeared to be doing their very best to make the newcomers feel completely unwelcome. John growled impolite things about the lack of community spirit to Mary while she baked her famous pumpkin cake, announcing her plans to take pastries door-to-door and introduce herself. Two hours later she was back, cake still in hand; not a single door had been opened.

Dean didn’t really mind it––they’d moved enough times by now that he didn’t even bother trying to make friends anymore––but the lack of a social life was clearly getting to Sam. The kid was moping about missing his friends back in Florida, where he’d been settling in quite nicely until they’d packed up and hit the road again, the way they always did. John made these decisions from time to time, and the rest of them had learned not to argue with him.

So off to Iowa it was, and now Dean found himself stuck in the most boring and unfriendly small town he’d ever known, with the less-than-charming prospect of starting at a brand new high school in the middle of the academic year. So, yeah, he had pretty much no chance of making any friends here anyway. Not that Dean made friends easily. Acquaintances, sure, but real friends were something different. Friends were something you had to invest time and effort in, and Dean’s life hadn’t given him much opportunity for the former nor motivation for the latter.

In fact, “lack of motivation” was a commonly heard complaint from Dean’s teachers. He was smart, and he knew it, but switching schools every few months made it damn hard to keep your grades up, so eventually he had just stopped trying. He knew he didn’t stand much chance of getting into a good college at this point, but he didn’t really care. He’d always preferred cars anyway. Houses, you had to leave behind; cars, you could take with you. They were like a home on the road.

Yeah, cars were good. Houses, though? Boring. Towns? Interchangeable. And people? They were all the same after a while, too. Nowadays, Dean left the socializing to Sammy and spent most of his time messing with any local junk cars he could get his hands on, or else holed up in his room, writing. His writing was his secret; no one else in the family knew he did it. Dean knew he wasn’t that great a writer––not yet––but he liked creating worlds in his mind, fantasy worlds with a family that stayed in one place and kids that had friends and maybe even pets... worlds with stability.

He’d gone up to his room today to write, actually, but then the new neighbors had arrived, all merry and ubiquitous, and Dean had stopped writing to peer down from his window and try to figure them out. At first there had seemed to be about twenty of them, but after a while it became apparent that their non-stop activity and conversation only made it seem that way. In fact, there were only three guys––no, four––and a redheaded girl. Two of the brothers were tall, one dark-haired and one fair; another was a bit shorter and scruffy-looking; and the last was physically the smallest but more than made up for it in energy and enthusiasm, constantly dashing around laughing and talking a mile a minute, often while eating candy. They all seemed so different from one another it was hard to believe they were related, but it seemed they were, for when they were all being particularly rambunctious at one point and that voice had called out to them, they’d answered practically in chorus “Sorry, Dad!” Weirdly enough, Dean hadn’t heard the voice itself; it must have been too quiet. He still couldn’t tell if there was a mother in the picture or not.

But anyway, Dean reminded himself, the antics of the new neighbors were just a temporary amusement, nothing to take too seriously. He definitely wasn’t even considering going over there to say hi. In any case, the red-haired girl was too intimidatingly attractive, and the lively brother with the sweet-tooth was too intense, while the two eldest were constantly either joking or fighting with each other, so he wouldn’t really feel confident about approaching them either. The last one, the quiet kid with the messy dark hair, might be okay though... that is, in theory. Not in practice. Because in practice, making friends was wasted energy. Might as well turn that energy to something productive instead, like working on his latest story.

***

In practice, though, things don’t always go as planned. When the neighbors’ house finally seemed quiet towards evening, Dean wandered into his own new backyard to look around and see if there was a good spot for a grill. The weather would be getting warmer soon, and he liked cooking up some hotdogs outside on a sunny afternoon.

As it turned out, there was already an old fire pit near the chain-link fence that divided their house from the neighbors’. It was covered with leaves, but still unmistakable as a dip in the ground surrounded by a patchy ring of bricks. Dean was scraping away the leaves with the toe of his boot when a low voice to his right said casually, as if continuing a conversation, “We’ve got some extra bricks over here, if you need them.”

Managing to conceal his surprise, Dean glanced up to see the neighbor kid, the one with the perpetual bedhead, leaning on the fence and looking at him with unabashed interest. Dean’s first wave of awkwardness was quickly replaced with irritation. What’d the dude think he was doing, standing there watching Dean like TV? How long had he been there anyway?

“Nah, I’m gonna put a grill out here,” Dean answered, matching the casual tone with one of his own. “Thanks anyway, though.”

“How long have you been here? Are you new to the neighborhood as well? It’s just, I noticed that you have a lot of boxes in your garage too. I think these are your bricks, actually, in any case; they match the ones you’ve got there. I’m not sure how they ended up on our side of the fence. Unless you put them there, of course. But I don’t think you did; there’s no reason to. I’m Castiel, by the way. Most people call me Cas. And I think you’re Dean, right?”

This flood of mixed-up information had all been delivered in the same uninflected voice, the half-bored tone betrayed by the wide, unblinking stare of what Dean now noticed were extraordinarily blue eyes. At a loss, Dean found himself with nothing to say but “Uh, yeah, right. Hi.” And he’d thought this kid was the quiet one... clearly that had been a mistake.

“Nice to meet you, Dean. I saw you watching us from your room earlier. You didn’t think I could see you, but I could. Those were my siblings, by the way; Mike, Luc, Gabe, and Anna. They all have longer versions of their names too, of course, but I won’t trouble you with that. I don’t expect you’d remember them in any case. You didn’t answer my question...?”

His voice trailed off almost elegantly, and Dean, still reeling from the shock of his new acquaintance’s machine-gun conversational style, scrabbled through his short-term memory to try to remember what the question alluded to might have been. No luck. He was about to open his mouth, planning to hedge a vague answer and then put some distance between himself and this crazy guy, when Cas spoke again.

“I see you’ve forgotten it. No worries, keeping track of multiple pieces of information in the brain can be difficult at times. I asked how long you’d been here, and hypothesized that you are similarly new to the neighborhood. You don’t actually need to answer; I was merely making conversation, having already realized that you and your family haven’t even finished moving in yet. I would guess you arrived here about a week ago. Am I correct?”

“More like two weeks,” Dean answered. Damn it, he’d been intending to give this guy the cold shoulder and slip back into the house ASAP, but as long as there were practically no breaks in the mostly one-sided conversation, that was proving hard to do. Plus, Cas’s patronizing tone was becoming more evident, and if there was one thing Dean couldn’t stand, it was being patronized. He could feel himself getting annoyed.

Those weirdly large blue eyes suddenly narrowed at him, and Cas said “Right, of course. Slow unpackers. You would be, wouldn’t you. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean, I guess I’ll see you around.” And he turned and strolled back toward his house without giving Dean a chance to reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Luckily, Dean didn’t have to deal with his weird new neighbors for the next few days, and when he next encountered one of them, it wasn’t the irritating and surprisingly talkative Castiel. Dean had started school––it was nothing to write home about, just a high school like all the others he’d attended––and when he got home on Friday he was more than ready for the weekend. He found the red-haired neighbor girl climbing out of a dark green Kia that was parked at a jaunty angle on the lawn (the moving truck was still in the driveway) and slamming the door angrily. He was going to just nod hello and head into his house, but she stood indecisively by the car, staring at it with a hopeless expression. _Huh,_ Dean thought. _Damsel in distress._

“Hey, you having some car trouble?” When she glanced over, he smiled confidently. This was one area he was quite at home in, and if he couldn’t pick up a girl by fixing her car, he might as well hang up his hat. However, her response wasn’t quite what he’d anticipated.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. That moron Gabe went and left the light on all night, so now my battery’s dead. Got a jumper cable?”

 _Shit,_ Dean thought. _Shit shit shit._ If it had been anything else, he could have dealt with it, but as it happened, he didn’t have any extra jumper cables lying around. “Uh, no, actually. You guys don’t either, huh?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not a guy. And yeah, genius, if we had one I wouldn’t have asked you. Thanks anyway.”

She grabbed her purse from the car and stalked into the house, and Dean was left standing stupidly on his front lawn. Here he was, probably the best self-trained mechanic in town, and the problem this girl had––Anna, that was her name, he remembered––happened to be the one thing he couldn’t help her with. Now she probably thought he was an idiot not only on the subject of cars, but in matters of basic logic as well. “God damn it,” he swore softly. A curtain upstairs in the neighbors’ house twitched, and Dean sighed, turning toward his own house.

Oh well, you win some you lose some. Mom was still at work, Dad was out scavenging for salvageable furniture at the local dump––a tradition of his, every time they arrived in a new town––and Sam had immediately joined the debate team that met after school, so he wouldn’t be home for another hour at least. Dean had the house to himself, and he planned to relax. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the previous owner had left a discolored but functional-looking hammock in the basement, and he was planning to find a spot to hang it up today. It didn’t have a free-standing frame, so he was counting on the prospect of locating two trees exactly the right distance apart. There was a cluster of small pines at the back of their yard that looked promising.

When Dean got out there, he quickly found two trees that looked perfect: perhaps a tiny bit smaller than he’d been hoping for, but they’d work. And, conveniently, they were on the opposite side of the yard from their weird new neighbors. Dean didn’t wish to be talked at by Cas or glared at by Anna while trying to relax in his own backyard. He fetched the hammock and its hooks from the basement and had it set up in no time, swinging lightly between the two trees he’d chosen. Dean stood back and looked at his work, satisfied. Time to reap the fruits of his labor. He fetched a book from the house and settled down in the hammock, being careful to get in gently so as not to strain the trees.

He’d only been reading about ten minutes when he heard a whistling sound followed by a small distant thud. He glanced up and around, but from his position he couldn’t see much. He returned his eyes to the page, but he’d barely picked up where he’d left off reading when it happened again, and the thud sounded nearer this time. With a sigh, Dean closed his book and swung his legs out of the hammock. He was in the act of standing up when something came humming toward him at high speed and thumped him right in the chest before falling to his feet. In shock, Dean stared down at a small arrow with a blunt wooden tip and real feathers on the other end. His chest was stinging from the blow, and he rubbed it automatically before even thinking to look and see where the arrow had come from.

When he did, he heart sank. He should have known: Castiel was leaning precariously over the fence with a large bow in his hand, peering into every corner of Dean’s yard. Resigned to his fate of being snarked at some more, Dean stepped out of the shadows and made himself known. “Hey, freak, what are you doing shooting arrows all over the place? You hit me right in the chest! That thing might not be real, but it still friggin’ hurts. What the hell are you playing at?”

“Oh, hello, Dean,” Cas said rather breathlessly, seeming startled at Dean’s presence. “I had no idea you were there, I’m sorry.” He held out his hand in an expectant manner, and Dean grudgingly walked over to return the arrow. When he’d given it to Cas, he didn’t even have time to turn away again before the other boy leaned forward and pressed a hand to his chest. “Here? Or lower? It’ll probably bruise. Well, that is, if my technique isn’t abominable.”

“Your technique IS abominable,” Dean snapped, stepping back jerkily and almost losing his balance. “You should learn to aim before you assault another innocent civilian.”

“I can too aim,” Cas retorted. “I was purposefully aiming into your yard because I didn’t think anyone was there.”

“Oh yeah? And then what were you gonna do, climb the fence and waltz on in to get your arrows back? Does the concept of private property mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does, I’ve read Rousseau. But I don’t suppose this particular private property means much to _you,_ seeing as you only moved in two weeks ago,” Cas said with brazen nonchalance. “Or have you already got bodies buried in the rose garden that you don’t want me to find? No, let’s see: maybe you’ve been planting mines, in order to liven up your pallid existence. Better yet: you’re worried that I’ll discover traces of your sordid nightly pagan rituals––believe me, I know all about those. You’re among friends here.”

“What? No!” Dean said indignantly. “God, you are strange. Listen, I don’t kill people, or, or plant mines, and I’m not a pagan. I’m just trying to relax in my hammock without getting shot, okay?”

Castiel’s eyes widened to an almost impossible degree, and Dean was again forced to notice how intensely blue they were. “You have a hammock?” Cas asked in a childlike tone of wonder. “I want a hammock. Can I use yours when you’re not in it?”

“No! Jesus.” Dean glared at him, desperately willing the other boy’s mouth to stay shut for two seconds so he could hear himself thinking. There was something he’d been wanting to say, now that he’d gotten tricked into having another conversation with this guy. What had it been? ...Oh, right, now he remembered. “How old are you anyways? I thought you’d be in my class, but I didn’t see you at school this week.”

“Oh, no, I’m homeschooled,” Cas replied. “I prefer to learn at my own pace. Most schools can’t keep up. My siblings are all older than me. Anna’s a freshman in college, Gabe’s a sophomore. They’re home on spring break right now to help us move. Luc and Mike have already graduated. They run an online business from home. I actually don’t know what kind of business it is. They’re very secretive about it. Possibly it’s something illegal. I don’t really care. But yes, I’m not at school, so you won’t see me there, although I’m flattered you looked for me.”

“I did not look for you,” Dean corrected him. “It’s a small school, that’s all, and I don’t know anybody else here yet.”

As soon as he’d said this, he regretted letting it slip, but Cas didn’t seem to pick up on it, instead remaining engrossed in staring at Dean’s face as he spoke. It was creepy how little the guy blinked––it made his blue eyes seem even less human.

When Dean had finished talking, Cas started up again as if he’d been waiting his turn. “By the way, my sister says you’re a moron. She says you somehow managed to misjudge her gender, knowledge of cars, and general intelligence, all in the space of a few seconds. Now, the latter two I can understand––everybody makes mistakes––but the first is frankly baffling. I don’t find girls particularly aesthetically pleasing myself, but I do know how to distinguish them from boys. Do you have trouble in this area? Let me quiz you. Am I a boy or a girl, Dean?”

“For Christ’s sake!” Dean was at a loss for words. “She––you––you guys are the weirdest bunch of people I have ever met, bar none. And that’s all I said to her, ‘you guys’. I didn’t mean that SHE was a guy, I just meant, well, all of y’all. You know what? Forget this. I am done, I can’t handle this conversation anymore.” He turned and beat a hasty retreat to the house.

When Dean got upstairs to the safety of his room, he peeked out the window––staying well back, remembering how Cas had noticed him the first day––and saw that his weirdo neighbor was now on the near side of the fence, having apparently hopped it with the agility of a cat, and was making a beeline for Dean’s hammock as if he owned the place. Dean didn’t feel he had the moral fortitude to kick the guy off his property, so he decided to spend the afternoon reading in his room. Maybe Rousseau.


	3. Chapter 3

On Monday afternoon, John was working in the basement, which was a bit of a mess, when he called up the stairs. “Dean?”

Dean was in his room, but he heard his dad’s voice and went to the top of the stairs to answer. “What?”

John’s exhausted and smudged face appeared in the door to the basement. “Got the wrong kind of tools for this job. I need you to run over to the neighbors’ house and ask ‘em if they got a real small Phillips head screwdriver, size zero if possible, no bigger than size one.” He was already turning away to head back down. “I’ll be down here when you get back. Don’t dally, boy.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean was annoyed to be pulled away from his writing, but he wasn’t about to disobey his father’s orders. Only after pulling on his shoes and taking the stairs two at a time down to the front door did he realize that he was only on speaking terms with one family in the neighborhood. He groaned to himself, but there was nothing for it.

After he’d rung the bell about five times, he heard a distant voice yelling “Okay, all right, I heard you the first twenty times! Take a chill pill, I’m on my way!”

Dean stepped back from the doorbell and stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. The door eventually swung inward to reveal the short hyperactive brother, who raised an eyebrow, leaned casually on the doorframe, withdrew a handful of Tootsie Rolls from his pocket with a flourish, and immediately made Dean somehow feel like _he_ was the undersized one here.

“Yes? What is it? No, don’t tell me, let me guess: you’re selling vacuum cleaners! You’re doing it ironically, though; you’re a hipster vacuum cleaner salesman. No, scratch that, not a hipster: you’re missing the soul patch and off-season scarf. Too bad, I was looking forward to ruthlessly mocking you. Hey, you’re wearing plaid, though!” He leaned forward and gleefully poked Dean’s overshirt. “Maybe there’s hope yet for the repressed hipster hiding deep inside you. You’d certainly need a makeover, though. Hmm, Anna had better set her sights elsewhere. You’re too much of a project. She only likes boys who write her songs on the ukulele. Ironically, you understand. Because apparently nobody plays the ukulele with a straight face anymore. What a shame. It’s an underappreciated instrument, don’t you think? Dang, but where DID you spring from anyway? Didn’t know there was any hot stuff like you gracing this half-dead dullsville district. Has Cas seen you? You might be right up his alley.”

Stunned into silence by the flood of words, Dean found himself dazedly thinking: _Huh, guess Cas is the quiet one after all._ But then his interlocutor’s leer began making him uncomfortable, so he cleared his throat and spoke his piece. “Um, I was wondering if I could borrow a screwdriver?”

“A screwdriver?” exclaimed the other in shock, as if he’d never heard the word before. “How touchingly parochial!”

Dean frowned in confusion, but before he could argue with the word choice, Castiel had appeared in the door next to his brother. “Gabe, what are––oh, Dean, why are you here?”

A bit put off by the non-greeting, Dean said shortly “Came to borrow a screwdriver.”

“Yeah, Cassie, you know anything about screwing?” Gabe turned his evil grin on his little brother, who frowned severely back at him, two faint spots of color forming in his cheeks, but didn’t answer. “Anna!” Gabe bellowed over his shoulder. “Question about screwdrivers!”

Almost immediately, Anna came into view at the top of the stairs, her hands behind her head as she braided her hair. “What about them?”

“Do we have one?” While Gabe waited for the answer with a charming smile, Cas took the opportunity to continue his favorite game: staring at Dean. Dean kept his own eyes determinedly on the elder brother, although in his peripheral vision he was still too aware of that blue gaze fixed on him.

“Yeah, a whole bunch.” Anna fastened her braid with an elastic, trotted down the stairs and pushed in between the two boys at the door. “Oh, it’s you. What kind of screwdriver do you need?”

“Uh, a real small Phillips-head. Got one of those?” Dean was relieved to see she didn’t seem to be scorning him after their unfortunate encounter the previous week.

“Sure we do. Go look in the parlor, left of the big chair.” With these words she turned away and headed back up the stairs. Gabe indicated the door to his left and then, as a loud Caribbean-sounding ringtone started up from somewhere near the back of the house, he vanished down the hall with a dramatic sigh.

Dean was left alone with Castiel, who finally tore his eyes away from Dean’s face and started into the parlor. After a short hesitation, Dean followed. For lack of anything else to say, he asked lamely “You guys keep your tools in the... parlor?”

“Not as a rule. But we haven’t unpacked them yet.” In light of the other boy’s usual conversational style, this response was so uncharacteristically normal-sounding that Dean felt a wave of relief rush over him. “Here we go,” Cas continued, lifting two boxes onto a chair to reveal the third hidden beneath them. “I think this is the right box.”

The box in question was marked ‘wasp’s nests, feathers, eggshells, etc.’ and Dean raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Why doesn’t it say ‘tools’ on it?”

“We don’t rename boxes. We just keep using them.” Cas opened the box and began digging around. “Phillips-head has a cross on the tip, eh? Here we go.” He stood up and handed a small screwdriver to Dean. “Please accept this, with my compliments,” he added quite seriously, and Dean couldn’t hold back a small grin––which, however, slid off his face at the following words. “Would you like to come over for tea sometime?” Cas suddenly asked. “I’d offer you coffee, but I despise it. I can’t even stand the smell. So I’m offering you tea instead. What do you say?”

“Um, thanks, but I don’t really drink tea.”

Cas seemed to take the refusal as nothing but a challenge. “What if I bake you petits fours to accompany it? I’ve never actually tried to bake anything before, but if it fails miserably at least I will have amused you with my pathetic attempt. On second thought, can you bake? Maybe you should bake me petits fours instead.”

“Pity-whats?” Dean interrupted. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. And no, I don’t bake. My mom does all that stuff.”

“That’s nice. Do you think she would consent to bake us some petits fours? I’ve never had them, but I hear they’re delicious. I would provide the tea, of course. I’m sorry, is this all too pompous-sounding for you? We could kick back and watch the game instead, if you would prefer. I can do hoi polloi just as well as hoity-toity. I don’t know what sort of games there are to watch right now––all I ever watch is hockey––and we don’t actually have a television, but I assume you do. I would supply drinks, of course. I believe there’s a local place that makes its own ginger beer. I’ve been wanting to taste that ever since I heard about it.”

Dean let out a small sigh. He should have known that Castiel’s temporary normalcy couldn’t last for long. “Listen, thank you for the loan of the screwdriver, but I’ve really got to get back and give it to my dad. He’ll be waiting already. Thanks a lot, seriously.” Before the other boy could open his mouth again, Dean had ducked out the door and bolted back across the driveway to his own house. When the door swung shut behind him, he let out an audible sigh of relief. That family was a trip.

As it turned out, he ended up getting dragged into his dad’s project, and spent the rest of the afternoon in the dark basement helping John weatherproof the western wall. Around seven they were finally done and had worked up a monster of an appetite. While eating dinner, Dean asked his mom “Hey, have you ever baked something called a... pity-foo?”

Sam broke down in a small fit of laughter, which he discreetly concealed by cramming dumplings into his mouth. Mary smiled and said “Oh, petits fours, I haven’t thought about those in ages! I think they’re like miniature iced cakes. No, I’ve never made them. Why, would you like some?”

“No, not really.” Dean glared at Sam and cleared the rest of his plate quickly. “I’m going to go reinforce the hammock supports. Thanks for dinner, mom.”

He had indeed been considering affixing the hammock a bit more securely to the two trees, but the extra nails he’d scrounged from his dad’s project that afternoon turned out to be too big. Examining the trees, Dean realized that pounding the nails into such thin trunks would dangerously weaken them. He sighed, and clambered gingerly into the hammock anyway. It was a gorgeous evening, with the sun still hanging on the horizon and long warm streaks of orange light sweeping across the valley to him as he lay there. Dean closed his eyes against the light and let out a sigh, accompanied by a shiver – it wasn’t really warm enough yet to be lying in hammocks in the evening. In summer it would be wonderful, though. He smiled to himself at the thought of it.

The next second, his eyes flew open as the hammock shifted suddenly and a heavy weight landed against him. “Hello, Dean. Let’s see if we can both fit in the hammock.”

“What the hell, Cas?!” Dean struggled to sit up, pushing in shock at the form that was flopping determinedly all over him. “Get off! Get out! You’re too heavy!” Dean gave one more violent thrashing push, and suddenly they were both on the ground with a painfully solid thump. Somehow, Cas was still mostly on top of him, and Dean found himself looking up into those annoyingly familiar eyes, which were now gazing down at him from entirely too close. Dean let out a wordless growl and twisted to the side to extricate himself from the tangle of arms and legs and ropes.

Finally on his feet again, he examined the damage. The hook he had stuck into one of the trees had bent and popped out when Cas’s added weight had strained it, which wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. At least the trunk itself hadn’t snapped, and the hammock was fine as well, apart from the bent hook. Dean’s pride was bruised, but physically he was unhurt. Having assured himself of the hammock’s well-being and his own, he finally turned his glare on Castiel. “Dude, what were you thinking?!”

Even sprawled on the ground with dirt stains on his jeans and leaves in his hair, Cas still managed to sound like he was talking down to Dean. “As I said, I wished to perform an experiment to determine the maximum weight capacity of your hammock. If you hadn’t struggled so much, the experiment might have been a success.”

Dean snorted in disbelief. “You are unbelievable. I wish to God you would leave me alone.”

“I don’t think you really wish that,” was Cas’s immediate response. “And you talk about God an awful lot, have you noticed? Are you religious? You strike me as the type that might have been raised Catholic but mostly gotten over it by now. Although it’s also possible––”

“No, no, no,” Dean cut in. He was not about to let this guy start another one of his crazy disjointed monologues, this time from the ground under Dean’s hammock. In an instinctive gesture to shut the other boy up, Dean knelt and grabbed him roughly by both shoulders. “Stop! Just stop. Just, please, shut your mouth for a second and don’t say anything.”

To his surprise, Cas complied. For a moment there wasn’t a sound but the distant creaking of a door, and Dean found himself once again the object of that huge blue stare. Worried that Cas would start babbling again any moment, Dean made himself say something instead. “You know, you’re always either talking a mile a minute or staring at me. Do you ever do anything else? Do you ever just close your eyes and be quiet?”

“Yes, I can do that,” Cas replied, and promptly did so, flopping on his back on the ground with his eyes closed and most of the hammock still tangled around his legs. Dean sat back, amazed that his spur-of-the-moment idea had worked to make the guy be quiet. And it really was very quiet at that moment. Castiel’s chest rose and fell slowly, and Dean brushed a bit of leaf off it without thinking. The touch caused Cas to open his eyes again, and Dean silently cursed himself. But Cas didn’t start rambling, instead merely commenting “This feels like a very Grimm Brothers moment.” He carefully sat up and began untangling the ropes of the hammock so he could stand. “I think I’ll go home now. Good night, Dean.”

To Dean’s surprise, he was suddenly left alone with a broken hammock and a buzzing head.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean felt like he probably knew who the Grimm brothers were, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Coincidentally, however, he heard the name again only a few days later. He was stuffing his notebook into his backpack at the end of English class when he overheard a snippet of the conversation the teacher was having with a girl about an extra-credit project. “Sure, Grimms’ fairy tales would be perfect. I even have a book I could lend you, hang on a moment...” Mr. Wilkins stepped to the bookshelf at the side of the room and scanned it rapidly before pulling out a thick book. “The complete edition, in the finest translation available.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Wilkins, but I’ve actually already got that book at home. That’s how I came up with the idea, you know, ‘cause I knew the stories...” The girl started chattering enthusiastically about her project idea, and Dean found himself trying to catch a glimpse of the book’s cover.

Mr. Wilkins noticed him eyeing it, and when the other student had finally taken her bag and left, he held it out to Dean. “Go on, take it. I noticed you looking at it. It’s good stuff – are you familiar with the Brothers Grimm?”

“I guess... maybe...” Dean flipped open the book to the table of contents and recognized some titles right away: _Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel..._ “Oh yeah, these are like the classic fairy tales, right?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘classic’. Some of them are rather gruesome. These are the uncensored original versions we’re talking about – not something I’d read to my kids, that’s for sure!” Mr. Wilkins chuckled as he put his own books into his briefcase. “Feel free to take it home, just bring it back to me before the end of the year, okay?”

As Dean left the school, he was kind of looking forward to reading the book. Normally he wouldn’t look twice at a collection of fairy tales, but Mr. Wilkins’ description of them as ‘gruesome’ and ‘uncensored’ had been intriguing. Hardcore fairy tales? It sounded like an oxymoron. Yeah, he was pretty excited to check out this book.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean was heading toward the waiting buses when a car horn blared from directly next to him, making him jump. Dean jerked his head up and stopped in his tracks when he saw who it was, causing a few annoyed students to jostle him in passing. Castiel was in the driver’s seat of a large light blue pickup truck that looked like it belonged on a farm lugging chickens around or something. He seemed a bit out of place behind the wheel, and was doing his very best to get Dean’s attention with nothing but his eyes, sending a fierce gaze in his direction but not getting out or waving or anything.

Not wanting to miss his bus, Dean deliberated just nodding hello and continuing to walk, but finally his curiosity got the best of him. It was obvious that Cas had come just for Dean, and while Dean was both creeped out and oddly flattered by that, his overwhelming feeling was confusion. Why on Earth was his weirdo neighbor waiting to pick him up from school? In a truck, of all things?

Dean strolled over to the pickup and leaned on the open passenger’s side window. “Howdy pardner. What’s with the truck? I think you forgot your straw hat and overalls.”

“It’s not mine,” Cas answered in irritation. “It belongs to Luc. I don’t have my own car. I borrowed it because I needed it. Please get in, Dean, the soul-crushing atmosphere of this place is making me very uncomfortable. I would like to leave.”

Dean took a step back and raised both hands. “Go ahead, then. I’m not stopping you.”

“No!” Cas snapped. “I want to leave with you. Get in the car, Dean. I need to show you something.”

Dean paused. He was seriously considering ignoring the guy and running to catch the bus. After all, it wasn’t exactly his goal to start a friendship with his strange neighbor. But then he glanced over and saw his bus already pulling away. Damn it. Now he had no choice. With a sigh, Dean pulled at the handle, but nothing happened. “You gotta unlock the door if you want me to get in.”

“It is unlocked.” Cas hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I suppose it must be broken. That’s not really a surprise. Things tend to fall apart around my brother.” He slid across the seat, pressed down on the inside handle just enough to open the door, and quickly slid back.

Dean clambered in and dropped his backpack between his feet. “So, you said you had something to show me?”

“Yes.” Cas had already started the engine and was peering anxiously into the rearview mirror as he maneuvered the truck out of its too-small parking space. “At the dump.”

“The dump? Real romantic date, dude,” Dean said sarcastically.

Castiel’s eyes got huge, although he managed to keep them focused on the road. “It’s not a date! I wouldn’t take you on a date to the dump!”

“Relax, I was just kidding.” Dean stared out the window. “Where is the dump anyway?”

“About five minutes from here. Provided we don’t get attacked by highway robbers. You never know what may be lurking around the next corner, Dean. Road rage comes in all shapes and sizes, and time periods. Maybe highway robbers were merely suffering the effects of stagecoach envy. Have you ever thought about how funny it is that the entire traffic system functions around a silent agreement between all drivers to obey the limitations of a painted yellow line? What if that car approaching us right now decided to stop obeying the yellow line and drifted across to the other side of the road? Or what if I did? Why do we follow these arbitrary regulations, Dean? There are so many of them in life. It’s really quite absurd.”

Dean raised his eyes to heaven. Apparently Cas’s natural thought-spewing tendencies became even worse when he was driving. Dean was quickly learning that the only way to engage in a balanced conversation with this guy was through regular shameless interruption. “So,” he started, as they turned into the gates of the dump, “Come here often?”

“Certainly not,” Cas responded primly. “But I happened to be here the other day and encountered your father. He had taken most of the good stuff by the time I arrived.”

Dean frowned. “How do you know who my father is?”

Cas sighed, and turned off the engine. “I’m very observant, Dean. You’re evidently not. But don’t worry; it’s a skill that can be learned. For some. Now, come on, I have something for you.”

Once they had exited the car, Cas’s surprise for Dean was immediately apparent: set aside from the car parts and broken furniture was a metal construction that Dean wouldn’t have been able to identify if it hadn’t been in his thoughts lately. A slow smile spread across his face as he approached it. “A hammock frame! Huh.” He grabbed it and tested the metal’s strength. It was in good shape, and although it was an unattractive olive-grey color, the paint job was smooth and there was no rust. When Dean glanced over at Cas, he saw that the other boy was biting his lip in nervous anticipation, and at that moment Dean felt more charitable towards his neighbor than he had during their entire short if fast-moving friendship.

“Do you like it?” Cas asked. “If you do, I thought we could put it in the back of the truck and take it home right now. Before anyone else takes it. I mean, I don’t know that anyone else will take it. But just in case hammock frames become a hot commodity tomorrow. Nobody cares if you take stuff from here, as long as they don’t actually catch you in the act. I’m sure we won’t get in trouble.”

“Nah, my dad does this all the time,” Dean said absently, jiggling the hammock frame again. It would be pretty cool, he had to admit to himself, to be able to move the hammock around to wherever he wanted in the yard. Then his mind played back the last thing he’d said and he winced, though making sure not to show it on the outside. Why did he always end up confessing things he’d rather keep private to his odd and loquacious friend?

It wasn’t until they’d successfully loaded the frame into the back of Luc’s truck and were almost all the way back home that Dean realized that he’d started thinking of Cas as a friend. Irritated with himself, he impulsively turned on the radio, and felt a bit better when he instantly recognized the long guitar solo on the Allman Brothers’ classic hit “Blue Sky”. He played air guitar along with it, not even caring if Cas shot him curious looks out of the corner of his eye.

When they got back, Dean felt it would be rude to tell Cas to scram, so the two of them worked together to get the hammock frame into the backyard and set up in a sunny spot. Dean used a hammer to pound the bent hook back into some kind of shape, and they attached the hammock to the frame with no trouble. Dean stood back and eyed it carefully, pleased with his work. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “And now you won’t have to damage the trees anymore by sticking things into them.”

“Oh, I see, your motivation for all this was some silly hippie tree-hugging thing, was it?” Dean teased him.

Cas frowned imperiously at him. “It’s not ‘silly’ to take the Earth’s protection seriously. It’s the only matter that affects literally all of us, and unfortunately it’s also the only one that no one feels is their personal responsibility. But it’s the personal responsibility of all of us. I hope you recycle and save water whenever you can, Dean. Do you own a bicycle? You should. It’s better than driving everywhere.”

“I take the bus to school,” Dean said defensively. “That is, when my freakish neighbor doesn’t insist on giving me a ride home in his brother’s gas-guzzling pickup truck.”

Cas narrowed his eyes to tiny slits, and Dean thought he could see a faint blush on the other boy’s cheeks. “That––this was an isolated incident. I will not have gifts for you every day.”

“Aw, you won’t?” Dean gave him a fake pout. “And here I was gettin’ all excited about it, too. I mean, nobody’s ever taken me to the dump and given me an ugly metal hammock frame before. I thought this meant we were pretty much engaged to be married.”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew together and his mouth fell slightly open, and to Dean’s amazement, not a single word came out. Cas was thoroughly flustered, and Dean couldn’t restrain a self-satisfied smirk. Maybe he was finally figuring out how to hold his own against this guy.

Deciding to quit while he was ahead, Dean gave Cas a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Thanks for the gift, thanks for the lift. I’ll be seein’ ya.” He headed back inside, leaving a stunned Castiel still standing in his backyard next to the newly set-up hammock. That, thought Dean with a grin, was a job well done. And there was no need to specify exactly what he meant by ‘that’.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean started reading the Grimms’ Fairy Tales, and they didn’t disappoint. They were way different from the Disney movies––not that he’d admit to having seen those, of course. These stories didn’t pull any punches. In the original version of _Snow White_ , the evil queen was forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes until she burned to death; in _Cinderella_ , pigeons pecked out the stepsisters’ eyes; and in _Hansel and Gretel_ , the children tied up the witch and slashed her throat before she could carry out her plan to slowly bleed them to death. Dean had always thought fairy tales were stupid, but this was pretty badass.

In addition to the Brothers Grimm, he continued trying to tackle Rousseau’s _Social Contract_ , which he’d found at the local library. This one was definitely harder going than the fairy tales, though; the old-fashioned writing was really complicated, and the concepts were kind of confusing too. But he stuck to it. If some homeschooled kid could read and understand this stuff, then doggone it, he could too.

In the meantime, he didn’t see Cas for a couple of days, and a small part of his mind started feeling a little bit guilty. Cas had gone to all the trouble of finding a hammock frame for him, borrowing his brother’s truck to bring it home, and helping Dean set it up, and Dean hadn’t even relented and told him it was okay to share the hammock. That would only be fair. After a while, this thought was bothering him so much that he sighed impatiently, sat up and folded a page of his book to mark his place, and headed downstairs. Crossing the yard and the neighbors’ driveway in a few seconds, he ended up at their front door and rang the bell, praying that he wouldn’t encounter the garrulous Gabe once again.

As it happened, his prayer was answered. A mumbling voice slowly approached the door, and it opened to reveal one of the elder brothers he hadn’t met yet, a big wary-looking guy with blond three-o’clock-shadow and a cell phone pressed to his ear. He seemed utterly unimpressed by Dean, and looked him up and down with barely a modicum of interest while finishing his phone conversation. “Sure... sure. Oh, I don’t doubt you in the slightest. I’ll be very interested to see how it all plays out. Yup. All right, well, I gotta go, there’s someone at the door. I don’t know, we’ll see. Bye.” He snapped the phone shut and said “You must be here for Cas. Upstairs on the right.” And with that he turned around and vanished into the depths of the house.

Dean nervously stepped in and closed the door behind him. He wondered if he should announce himself by yelling hello or something, but decided against it. The house was pretty big, and it was likely that no one would hear him. He might as well head upstairs and try to find Cas.

At the top of the stairs, a corridor ran off to the right, and Dean followed it dutifully, getting less and less sure of himself as he continued. He could hear distant piano music, low tremulous chords that sounded like a dramatic film soundtrack. He wondered if Cas was watching a movie. Maybe he should turn around and leave. When he reached the end of the corridor, the music was so loud that his gentle knock on the door went unheard. The chords continued, rippling violently up and down, and Dean gathered his courage and turned the handle, pushing the door a few inches open.

To his amazement, he saw a large piano set against the far wall of the room, in front of a wide window, and Castiel was at the keyboard, producing the film-soundtrack music all by himself. Dean let the door swing silently further open, feeling his eyebrows slide up his forehead as he listened to Cas play. He didn’t know much about classical piano music, but his friend was clearly no beginner. After a minute, though, Cas fumbled a chord and jumped to his feet in evident impatience, spinning away from the keyboard. He stopped short when he saw Dean, and his eyes opened very wide.

There was silence for a moment, and Dean surprised himself by being the one to break it. “That...was awesome. I had no idea you played the piano.”

“Well––” Cas half-turned and glanced back towards the keyboard. “Um. I don’t practice regularly enough to call myself a serious musician. My attention span is too short for me to successfully learn the music I want to play. That––” he waved a dismissive hand at the instrument, turning back to Dean and taking a few steps towards him, “That was the first part of Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto number two. There’s supposed to be an orchestra. It sounds awful by itself. I hate it. I mean I hate him. I don’t know why I picked that piece. It’s quite well-known, but I can’t stand to listen to it. I thought playing it myself might improve my relationship to the music. It hasn’t worked so far. I need a sea change. Something completely different. Do you have any recommendations for me?”

Dean made an apologetic grimace. “Probably not. I mean, I don’t really listen to much piano music.”

Cas tipped his head slightly to one side and regarded Dean thoughtfully. “But you said you liked my playing just now.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean shrugged awkwardly. “I mostly listen to rock, but...” He nodded at the piano. “That sounded pretty cool.”

“You should broaden your horizons,” Cas declared. “Listen to various piano pieces and tell me which composers you like. I need more ideas. I’m stuck in a rut. I only have pieces by Rachmaninoff and Bartok, so I keep trying to play them, and I can’t, because I don’t like them so I don’t have the patience to learn them, but I don’t want to order sheet music for more pieces until I know I like them and can play them.” He sighed theatrically. “It’s a vicious circle. A vicious circle of bombastic piano torture. I must escape it somehow. Are you at all hungry?”

The swift change of topic barely caught Dean off-guard this time. “Well, a little, but I didn’t come to bum food off of you. I actually just wanted to tell you, uh, that it’s fine with me if you want to use the hammock sometime. I mean, you went and found the frame and everything, so, like, if you ever wanna come over...” He trailed off, seeing a soft glow of happiness on Castiel’s face. Dean swallowed and quickly finished his speech. “If you ever want to come over and lay in it, feel free. I mean, if I’m not already there. Because that didn’t work too good last time with both of us.”

Castiel’s subtle smile got a bit wider. “Lie. Well.”

“What?” Dean frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You said ‘lay’ and ‘good’ when you should have said ‘lie’ and ‘well’. But it doesn’t matter. Content is more important than style, and being kind is far more important than being right. Thank you for your kind offer, Dean. I will be certain to take you up on it. Will you be hammocking this afternoon?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up. “If I’m not allowed to say ‘lay’ and ‘good’, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to say ‘hammocking’. And yeah, actually, I was planning to have a _good lay_ in the hammock for an hour or so, reading Rousseau.”

Dean would be lying if he claimed he didn’t mention his choice of reading material in order to impress Castiel. Although he was no longer as annoyed by the other boy as he’d been at their first meeting, he still felt somewhat competitive toward his grammar-correcting, book-referencing, piano-playing neighbor. However, Cas merely looked vaguely interested when Dean mentioned Rousseau. “Really? What are you reading by him?”

Dean hoped he hadn’t just painted himself into a corner. “Um, it’s called _Social Contract_.” He wasn’t sure why the other boy grinned so devilishly at this reply. He had remembered the title correctly, hadn’t he?

Cas quickly reined in his smirk, though, and said solemnly “A good choice, Dean. If you wish to discuss the book when you’ve finished, I should be pleased to do so with you. Perhaps over tea and petits fours?”

Dean couldn’t hold in a short laugh. “Cas, you have the funniest way of talking of anybody I ever met. And what are petits fours anyway, like little iced cakes or something?”

“With marzipan!” Cas said, nodding vigorously. “You have to make them with marzipan, otherwise they’re boring. I’ll make you some. I just bought some almonds, and I’m going to try making my own marzipan. Would you like to help?”

“I don’t cook,” Dean scoffed. “Not my thing.”

“I see.” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You read Rousseau and borrow screwdrivers and stick nails in trees, but you don’t cook. Is there anything else you DO do?”

“Sure,” Dean replied defensively. “I can fix pretty much anything that’s wrong with a car. The only reason I couldn’t help Anna the other day was ‘cause I didn’t have a jumper cable. And I wri––I read other stuff too. Not just Rousseau.” Cas was still giving him a measuring look, so Dean continued, racking his brains and not wanting to appear useless. “I’m pretty handy around the house. I can unclog a sink and stuff. And I may not play any musical instruments, but I can sing okay, and I know how to tune a guitar. Is that enough?” he finished, half joking and half challenging.

Cas gave a tiny nod. “Yes, that sounds quite satisfactory. You’ll do.” With these words, he brushed by Dean and passed out the door, while Dean was left to follow him, wondering what position he’d just unknowingly applied for.


	6. Chapter 6

After Cas had shown him to the door, he stood there unnecessarily long, watching Dean all the way back to his own house. When Dean opened his front door and looked back, Cas was still watching, so Dean raised an eyebrow at him and went inside. Upstairs, he grabbed his Rousseau book (and the Grimms’ fairy tales too, in case he got tired of trying to decipher all that political theory), and then headed back down to go lay––lie, whatever––in the hammock. ‘Hammocking’, as Cas had called it. Remembering the word, Dean snorted. What a weirdo that guy was.

Dean tugged the hammock frame mostly into the sun, leaving just the head end in the shade so he’d be able to read comfortably, and settled down. After about an hour of Rousseau, he couldn’t take it anymore and switched to the fairy tales. He started a new one called _The Fisherman and His Wife_ , and was soon completely caught up in the story.

_The fisherman went home, and when he got there, he saw what seemed to be a large church surrounded by palaces. He pushed his way through the crowd. Inside, everything was lit up with thousands and thousands of candles, and his wife was clad in gold, and she was sitting on a throne that was miles high, and she had three great golden crowns on. On each side of her was a row of candles, the largest of which was as tall as the very tallest tower, down to the very smallest kitchen candle, and all the emperors and kings were on their knees before her, kissing her shoe. He stood and looked at her, and it was just as if he was looking at the bright sun._

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean looked up and, as if his story had come to life, he found himself unable to see anything because the afternoon sun was shining right into his eyes. He squinted and raised a hand to block it out, and finally made out the shape of Castiel standing a respectful distance from the hammock. “Will you taste this and tell me what you think? I think I might have made the marzipan icing too almondy.”

Dean blinked a few times and realized Cas was offering him a small plate with a tiny iced cake on it. A big grin spread across his face as he put down his book. “Hey, is that a––did you make petits fours after all? I didn’t think you were actually gonna.”

Cas frowned. “Of course. I said I would, and I did. I used store-bought cake mix, but I think they still ought to be quite good. As I said, the marzipan icing is my own creation. And I added some almond flour to the cake mix as well.”

Dean happily grabbed the tiny cake and ate it in one bite. “Wow, that’s delicious, Cas. Are there more?”

Cas gazed at him with an awed expression. “You ate that very fast. Uh, yes, there are more. I haven’t iced the rest yet, though. I’ll bring some over later if you’d like. What are you reading?”

“Oh, that.” Suddenly embarrassed, Dean wished he’d thought to put Rousseau on top of the fairy tales, instead of the other way around. “It’s a copy of the Grimms’ fairy tales... I was just taking a look. They’re not actually that sissy, y’know. There’s lots of violence and stuff.” Remembering how Mr. Wilkins had described the book, Dean repeated it. “This is the complete edition, in the best translation available.”

“I see.” Cas seemed to hesitate, the empty plate in his hand, before adding almost shyly, “Those stories virtually function as archetypes within Western society.”

Dean stared at him, still squinting against the sun. “Cas, tell me. Do all homeschooled kids talk like walking book reports? Or is that just you? Are you just that strange?”

Cas frowned in Dean’s direction. “I will assume you are attempting to compliment me in a roundabout fashion. Thank you. Now I am going to return home and continue icing cakes, and when I bring them to you I will expect a ‘thank you’ in return.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Dean said guiltily. “It was really good, seriously. I can’t wait to have more.”

Castiel’s frown maintained its general shape while somehow simultaneously appearing to lighten a bit with amusement, and when he turned back toward his house, he had a determined gleam in his eye.

When Dean’s dad got home about a half hour later, he enlisted Dean’s help right away. “There’s an old Biscayne at a yard just off the interstate, twenty minutes from here, and the guy’s gonna junk it tonight. The chassis’s crap but the engine’s in perfect shape. C’mon, we’re gonna go liberate that baby.” Dean was always excited to go along on a car-salvage trip, and this one proved successful, as they returned a few hours later with the complete engine in the back of John’s truck.

Sam met them at the door, chewing on something and looking bemused. Dean could smell almonds. “Hey Dean, you didn’t tell me you were friends with the neighbors,” Sam said right away. “Like, really good friends. As in, such good friends that one of them comes over with baked goods for you and looks like he’s almost gonna cry when he hears you’re not in.”

“Shit,” Dean said, and immediately got a cuff from his dad.

“Language,” John barked.

“Sorry.” Dean rubbed his jaw and winced, waiting until their dad had gone upstairs to speak again. “Did he leave the cakes?”

“Yeah. They’re really good.” Sam indicated a plate on the kitchen counter, and Dean saw it had three remaining petits fours on it, beautifully iced with frosting flowers that were mouthwatering to behold.

“Dude, you ate my cakes!”

“I only had two. Mom’s working late, there was no supper. And they’re petits fours, he said,” Sam corrected. “I think he really likes you, Dean. I mean, like REALLY really. What did you do to get the guy to bake you stuff? What’s his name anyway? Cas––is that short for something?”

Dean ignored him in favor of picking up a cake and stuffing it in his mouth. Yup, just as good as last time. A pang of guilt shot through him. Castiel was being really nice to him, and Dean hadn’t done much to deserve it. At the same time he was thinking this, another traitorous little part of Dean’s mind couldn’t help wondering if the guy could bake pie as well. He shook it off, and swallowed.

“Hey, Sam. Who are some good composers that write piano music?”

Sam looked nonplussed. “I don’t know. I don’t listen to much piano music. Why don’t you just look it up?”

“Good idea.” Dean wandered over to Sam’s laptop, which was sitting on the table, and typed ‘composers piano music’ into the search bar.

“Yeah, sure, that works... or you could have used your own computer, jerk,” Sam grumbled, heading for the fridge.

“It’s upstairs, bitch,” Dean responded vaguely, scrolling through the search results. There were lots of names, and he knew he wouldn’t remember them all, so he randomly chose two that sounded similar and pushed the computer shut. “I’m going next door. Back in ten.”

He headed for the front door, trying to ignore the way Sam was meaningfully humming the ‘Love Boat’ theme song behind him.

This time, Dean only had to knock twice before the door opened wide to reveal the final brother he hadn’t yet met, the tall dark one. He was wearing a suit and was clearly about to leave the house himself, but he didn’t seem surprised to find Dean there. “Hi, are you looking for Cas?”

“Yeah. I’m Dean.”

“I’m Mike. I’m not sure where he is, but he’ll probably answer his cell. I’m sorry, I’m in a rush.” He picked up a leather case from the hallway and then stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

Dean was at a loss. “Oh. Okay. Well, I don’t actually have his phone number. I... guess I’ll just wait.”

“I can give it to you. Give me your phone.” Mike held out his hand, and Dean put his phone into it.

A few minutes later, he had Cas’s number stored in his phone and was still standing on the front porch, watching Mike drive away into the evening in a black BMW. With nothing else to do, Dean sat down on the steps and pressed ‘call’. Then, thinking better of it, he stood up and wandered back towards his own house as the phone rang three, four, five times.

Suddenly the ringing was cut off and Cas answered, sounding more gravelly-voiced over the phone than in real life. “Hello?” His tone was wary.

“Uh, hey, Cas, it’s Dean. Sorry to call you out of the blue like this. Your brother Mike gave me your phone number. I just wanted to say thanks for the petits fours. They were really good. Even if my idiot brother ate half of them by himself. Anyway, that was––yeah, great. So thanks.”

“Dean.” Cas’s voice was much warmer now. It almost sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “A phone is not a telegram. You don’t need to communicate your entire message in one breath.”

Bypassing his front door and heading for the backyard, Dean huffed a laugh. “Oh yeah? The guy who talks like he’s from a century ago is trying to tell me something about technology? That’s cute. Anyway, that’s not my entire message. I also wanted to say that you should look up some pieces by Schu––uh––Schubert and Schumann. ‘Cause you wanted something new to play, y’know.”

“Really? Which pieces?” Cas sounded intrigued.

“I dunno.” Out of habit, Dean shrugged. “I’ve never listened to them.” He had made his way through the dark to the hammock, and now sat down in it, gently rocking in the night air.

“Well, do. Then tell me which pieces you like. And I’ll see if I like them too. And then maybe learn to play them.”

Dean hesitated. “Uh, I don’t have any recordings of classical music. I’m not sure where––”

“That’s not a problem,” Cas smoothly cut in. “I can supply the audio. My father has an extensive vintage collection of LPs gathering dust in our parlor. I’m sure he has Schubert and Schumann somewhere in there. I’ll invite you tomorrow.”

Dean frowned. “How do you know I’m not busy tomorrow?”

Castiel’s tone was reprimanding. “I didn’t say I’d invite you FOR tomorrow. I said I’d invite you, tomorrow.”

“Huh.” Dean raised an eyebrow but decided to let it go. “Whatever. All right. Well. Where are you, anyway?”

“At a dance performance. Gabe insisted that I come with him. He has a slight obsession with belly dancers. I do not find them quite as fascinating, but their skill is admittedly impressive. Or it would be, if the music were not distractingly loud. It’s the aural equivalent of garish.”

“Oh, sorry to interrupt you during a show,” Dean said. “You shouldn’t have picked up.”

“Dean, did you not hear what I just said about the music? I was longing for an excuse to escape it. Any phone call was welcome. The prospect of speaking with you is positively pleasant in comparison to what I was suffering through.” He paused and then added “But then, it’s pleasant in comparison to most things.”

Dean had been going to make a smart remark until Cas had added that last sentence. Now he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t quite tell if he was getting a compliment or a subtle put-down, or possibly both. Knowing Cas, it could quite easily be both. Instead, he settled for saying “So, what, are you being that annoying guy who talks on his phone during a show?”

“No, Dean,” Cas replied patiently. “I left the auditorium before I answered the phone. I am currently walking up and down the hallway.”

“What hallway?”

“The hallway of the Dearborn Performance Center. It’s in the next town over. They’re always having concerts and film series and dance shows and so on. We could go to one sometime if you want. Right now I’ve reached the end of the hall, and I’m trying to open the janitor’s closet. It’s locked. They always are. But that never stops me from trying. Is there anything else you’d like to know? What I’m wearing, perhaps?”

Dean could feel himself blushing in the dark, and he tried to put his glare into the tone of his voice. “No, definitely not. And, listen, dude...” His heart was beating fast with nervousness, but he made himself spit out the next words before he could chicken out. “I don’t know if that comment about going to a show together was intended as, as, as like asking me out or something, but if it was, then you ought to know that I’m not into that. Like, I appreciate the hammock frame and the petits fours and stuff, but I wanna be upfront about this, y’know? I’m not––I don’t––I mean, that’s just not my scene.” He swallowed, hoping Cas couldn’t hear it over the phone, and when he didn’t get an immediate answer, prompted “Okay?”

There was another beat of silence, then another, and then finally Cas cleared his throat on the other end of the line and said softly “Okay.”

Dean let out a whoosh of breath and said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, “Okay. Great. Then, um, good night.”

“Good night, Dean.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Dean was awoken at a few minutes past nine by the sound of voices in the kitchen. He rolled over on his bed and peered blearily out the window to see that both his parents’ cars were gone. Who was Sam talking to?

He got up, threw on a t-shirt over his boxers, and considered showering first, but his curiosity got the better of him and he went downstairs. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he blinked in disbelief to see Sam pouring a glass of milk and laughing while Cas’s obnoxious older brother Gabe sat on the counter like he owned the place, sorting through a pile of Starbursts next to him. “I’ve got watermelon, mango, blueberry, strawberry-pineapple, blackcurrant, and green apple. What do you want?”

“I didn’t know they had all those flavors! I guess I’ll try the green––oh, hey, Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean was still staring at Gabe, and quickly getting annoyed. What was this dude doing in his house, feeding candy to his baby brother?

“Mornin’, Dean-o,” Gabe said breezily. “Glad you’re finally up. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” He hopped off the counter, handed the green apple Starbursts he’d just sorted out to Sam, and stalked up to Dean with a dangerous glint in his eye. “What did you say to my little bro last night?”

“What––I––what are you talking about?” Dean rubbed his eyes and frowned at the intruder.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Winchester, you do it too well. He’s been going on and on about you lately, Dean this and Dean that, and then last night he takes a phone call and gets super quiet afterward. He literally didn’t say a word the whole way home. Do you know how unusual that is? I was considering taking him to the doctor, until he let it slip that the call was from you. So I figured, scratch the doctor, I’ll head over here instead and get the lowdown straight from the horse’s mouth. Now, tell me: what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Dean automatically replied, then amended it. “Anything that’s any of your business, that is. Cas isn’t a baby, he can take care of himself.”

“I know that, but I’m his big brother, and big brothers have to do these things.” Gabe narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I just don’t want you... giving him any wrong ideas. Leading him up the garden path, if you know what I mean. That’s not fair. You had better be honest with him. The guy lives in enough of a fantasy world as it is, he doesn’t need confusion and mixed signals coming from other folks too.”

“I was honest,” Dean protested. He frowned and glanced at Sam, not wanting to reveal too much. “I was like, really honest. I think that might have been the problem, actually.”

“Oh.” Gabe seemed satisfied, if surprised, by this answer. He took a step back and regarded Dean thoughtfully. “Hmph. Well, in that case, I have a conference to get to, so I reckon I’ll round up my remaining rations and fly. Toodle-oo, boys.” Having somehow gathered up the entire pile of candy in the blink of an eye, he zipped out of their house almost as quickly, leaving a disoriented Dean and a sulking Sam behind.

“Why’d you have to butt in, Dean?” Sam complained, unwrapping his last Starburst. “He’s fun. He was gonna teach me to swear in Vietnamese.”

Dean snorted. “Somehow I doubt that guy knows Vietnamese. Don’t believe everything he tells you, Sammy. And you shouldn’t have accepted candy from him, either.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Come on, Dean, you’re not my dad. And he’s our next-door neighbor. You are just absurd sometimes. Speaking of which, could your life be any more like a soap opera? It’s getting hilarious.”

Dean held up three fingers. “Read between the lines, bitch.” He made a beeline for the fridge, trying to recall exactly what he’d said to Cas last night. It hadn’t been that bad, had it? He’d gotten the impression that the other boy might be flirting and had simply told him that he wasn’t interested. There was nothing wrong with that. Dean sighed. Although he’d never admit it, Sam’s words rang true: his life was starting to feel a bit like a soap opera.

The day passed with no word from Cas until late in the evening. Dean was in his room when his mom knocked and peeped around the edge of the door. “Hey honey, a letter came for you.”

Dean frowned. “A letter?”

“Yes, somebody pushed it under the front door. Here you go.”

When he was alone again, Dean examined the envelope. It was made of thick cream-colored paper, and his name was written in wobbly yet stylish cursive on the front. There was no sign who it was from, but Dean didn’t need to guess twice. He lifted the flap––it had only been lightly sealed––and withdrew an equally fancy sheet of letter paper. Starting to smile, Dean read what was written in the same elegant scrawl:

_An Invitation_  
 _To: Dean Winchester_  
 _From: Castiel_  
 _Mr. Winchester is cordially invited to tea at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon at the residence of your humble servant, to be accompanied by classical music in the parlor, followed by a discussion of the merits of various Romantic-era piano works. If this all doesn’t sound too gay, that is._

Dean’s face fell when he read the last line. He couldn’t tell if Cas was teasing him or was actually mad. He quickly scanned the remaining text:

_RSVP  
P.S. I know you said you don’t drink tea, but have you heard of Lapsang Souchong? It is unique among teas. I believe the expression is ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’_

Dean’s smile almost returned when he read the P.S. and he let out a long breath. Tea and classical music was not his kind of thing, but he knew he would accept the invitation anyway. He didn’t want Cas to be mad at him. He ripped a sheet of paper out of the notebook lying on his bed, scribbled ‘Sounds great, see you Sunday’ and, failing an envelope, folded it in half and wrote ‘Castiel’ on the outside. Then he ran downstairs, out the door, across the lawn, over the driveway, and up onto the porch of Cas’s house. There was a light on in a window upstairs, but otherwise the house was dark and silent. Dean slipped the paper under the door, stood there for a minute in the dark looking up at the lighted window, and then returned home.

He didn’t communicate with Cas again before Sunday. At a few minutes to four on that afternoon, Dean closed the book he’d been pretending to read for the past half hour, got up, and had a brief intense debate with himself about changing his pants. It was futile, because he didn’t own anything but jeans and one too-small dress suit, neither of which seemed appropriate for going to tea, so in the end he just kept the jeans and made his way downstairs and out the door. Luckily he didn’t encounter any of his family––he wouldn’t have wanted to tell them he was going to a tea party. Sam would never have let him hear the end of it.

Cas answered the door before the doorbell had stopped ringing, but with a distant expression on his face. “Hello, Dean,” he said politely. “Please come in. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, um, me too,” Dean said awkwardly. Shit. Somehow he hadn’t realized until he actually saw Cas that they were probably going to have to talk about this whole thing. After all, Cas had snidely written ‘If this doesn’t sound too gay’ into his invitation. That wasn’t something you could just ignore.

Dean had always been the type who preferred to get an unpleasant chore done sooner rather than later, so as Cas led the way down the hall, Dean cleared his throat and started talking. “Listen, I want to say sorry about the other day, on the phone... if I came across as rude or something. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just––I guess I can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Cas had stopped walking after the first sentence, and he turned to look at Dean as the other boy finished his speech. In the ensuing silence, Dean felt like he should say something else, so he did. “And, um, tea and classical music definitely doesn’t sound too gay.” His eyes widened as he realized the implication of what he’d said, and he rushed to correct himself. “I mean, unless it’s supposed to be. I mean, obviously it’s not supposed to be––it’s not supposed, I mean it doesn’t have––it’s not anything, it’s––you––are you gay?”

Cas looked like he was trying not to smile. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I take it you’re not.”

“No! No, I’m not. I’ve never––no.”

Cas tipped his head. “You’ve never...?” His blue eyes seemed to complete the question.

Dean could feel himself blushing furiously. “I––I––can we just have tea already?”

Cas pressed his lips tightly together for a moment, nodded, half to himself, and resumed leading the way down the hall.

They emerged into a large dark wood-paneled kitchen with bundles of dried herbs hanging from nails that stuck out of the beams. There was an old cast-iron wood-burning stove and a chandelier that had candles instead of lightbulbs. Seeing Dean stare at it, Cas fetched some matches and lit the candles. “We won’t be in here for long, but it’s quite a dark room, and they improve the ambience,” he explained.

Dean nodded, becoming belatedly aware that his mouth was slightly open, and quickly closing it. This house was awesome. It really felt like it was from another time, or place, or both. He watched in fascination as Cas opened the stove door and poked a few more small pieces of wood in, then filled a kettle and put it on to boil. Finally he returned his attention to Dean. “What sort of tea would you like?”

Dean swallowed. He was just now becoming aware of the very tangible lack of Castiel’s normal half-insane ramblings. The comparative silence was so weird that he almost found himself missing them. “You mentioned some sort of tea in your invitation... I don’t remember the name.”

“Oh yes, Lapsang Souchong,” Cas said, evidently pleased that Dean was willing to try it. “It’s quite remarkable. You’ve never had it, have you?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, I don’t drink tea much.”

Cas took two teabags from a drawer and placed them in two large black mugs. One had white letters on it saying ‘Heaven’ with a halo on the ‘H’, and the other had red letters spelling ‘Hell’ in flames. Weirdly enough, the ‘H’ of ‘Hell’ appeared to have a halo too. Dean almost commented on that, but decided not to.

The water boiled, and Cas carefully poured it. “Milk? Sugar?” he queried.

Dean shrugged. “However it’s best. I’ll trust you on this.”

Cas gave Dean an oddly warm look, and then carefully added a bit of sugar and milk to each cup. “Which would you like? Heaven or Hell?”

“I’ll take Hell.”

Without a word, Cas handed him the mug, and then crossed the room to blow out the candles in the chandelier. “The parlor’s this way. I’ve dug out my father’s Schubert and Schumann records. We’ll see if we can find any promising piano pieces. Don’t drink yet,” he warned Dean. “Give it a few minutes to steep or you won’t get the full flavor.”

Hearing Cas speak more than a few sentences at once was so close to normalcy that Dean couldn’t hold back a small smile as he followed the other boy into the parlor. They were entering the room from a different door now, but he quickly got his bearings, although the boxes of tools were gone. Now it looked perfectly liveable, with several large soft shabby armchairs and a short sofa. Dean made himself at home on the sofa while Cas sorted through the records, and when Dean finally tasted his tea he was taken aback.

“Dude, this tastes like smoked meat!” he spluttered.

Cas nodded. “It is smoked. That’s what gives it its special taste. Good, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s crazy.” Cas was still looking at him, so he took another sip. “Yeah, it’s good.”

“Lapsang Souchong was the first black tea ever made,” Cas commented absently, examining the back of an LP. “It’s a piece of history. Here, let’s start with Schumann’s _Kinderszenen._ I’ve heard about this one.”

To Dean’s surprise, he was soon genuinely enjoying himself. The music was charming, quaint and innocent and almost catchy enough to hum, and he found himself quickly finishing his tea and even saying yes when Cas offered him another cup. Cas continued to slowly but steadily return to his old voluble self over the course of the afternoon as they moved on to Schubert, and Dean was relieved that the other boy didn’t seem to resent Dean’s earlier faux pas. Before he knew it, the long rays of the setting sun were shining in the windows and they had listened to all four records Cas had found, deciding that he ought to learn to play two pieces from the _Kinderszenen_ , as well as Schubert’s _Schwanengesang_ (which neither one of them could pronounce, but Cas claimed his brother Mike would have no trouble with).

Finally, Dean heard the distant sound of his mother’s voice calling his name for supper and reluctantly said “I should go.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Cas answered from his spot on the floor, slipping a record back into its sleeve. He glanced up at Dean with a faint smile. “This has been very enjoyable.”

“Yeah, I had fun,” Dean said honestly, standing up and stretching. “Argh, I’ve been sitting on my ass too long. What should I do with my mug?”

There was a short silence. Cas got up and came over. “I’ll take it. Don’t worry about it.” He gently removed it from Dean’s hands.

“Okay. Well, um, thanks––”

“Dean, I think you should know that I’m courting you.”

Dean’s mouth fell halfway open and stayed there while his mind rapidly re-played the words he’d just heard. “Um––you––” He swallowed, almost painfully, and started again. “But, Cas, I told you I’m not––”

“Yes,” Cas interrupted him again. “I don’t care.”

“But––I mean, you can’t––I’m just not––”

“Dean,” Cas said, as if reprimanding a young child. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. You liked the Lapsang Souchong.”

Dean went through dinner with his family that night in a daze, and later when he was looking in the cupboard and accidentally found that his mom had a single bag of Lapsang Souchong tea, he had to fight off a flood of weird feelings. He ended up stuffing the teabag in his pocket and slamming the cupboard door.


	8. Chapter 8

After hearing Castiel’s declaration of intention, Dean sort of expected to deal with pebbles thrown at his window and red roses on his doorstep, but instead he heard absolutely nothing from Cas for several days. Of course he couldn’t allow himself to initiate contact––not after, well, THAT––but he found himself beginning to get kind of bored without Cas’s unpredictable presence in his life.

Even Sam noticed, and one day he jokingly asked “So, what, did you break up with your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean said wearily, and sighed, staring out the kitchen window at the empty hammock. Then he completely surprised himself by adding “He wants to be, though.”

Sam stopped in the middle of spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. “Wait, what? Seriously?” He began to laugh. “He actually––how do you know?”

Dean collapsed into a chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “He told me. Like, straight-out told me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, what did he tell you? What’d he actually say?”

Dean groaned. “It doesn’t matter, Sammy, the point is he wants to get into my pants and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Sam was grinning in disbelief now, sandwich forgotten. “Go along for the ride?” he suggested.

Dean gave him a look. “Ha ha. You’re forgetting one tiny detail: I’m not into dudes.”

“Hey, you could do worse.” Sam shrugged. “It’s not like you have the girls lining up for you at school.”

“I could if I wanted,” Dean shot back, and only realized the trap he’d stepped into when Sam began to smirk.

“So you don’t want the girls? Well, then. QED.” Sam turned back to his sandwich fixings with an unbearably smug look on his face, and Dean growled in frustration.

“I am not gay, idiot! Come on, seriously, though: what should I do?” Dean wasn’t sure when this had turned into an asking-his-kid-brother-for-advice session, but it proved how desperate he was that he didn’t even mind looking like a fool.

Sam sounded unexpectedly mature when he answered. “The way I see it, you’ve got three options: ignore it, accept it, or end it. But you gotta pick one of them. And soon.”

Those words came back to Dean that evening when his phone rang and he saw that it was Cas calling. His stomach started doing funny things, and he wondered if he should answer or pretend that his phone had been on silent mode. It had been five days since he’d heard from the other boy, though, and finally he picked up and answered, his voice sounding stupidly timid to his own ears. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel sounded equanimous as ever. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Dean waited tensely for the bomb to drop before remembering his manners. “Uh, how are you?”

“I’m quite well, thank you. I’m calling you because I got my hands on a pair of tickets to the pre-tour kickoff private concert of a certain band called Astaroth, and I was wondering––”

“Are you fucking KIDDING me?!” Dean exploded. “You––that––they–– _what?_ ” Astaroth was one of the most kickass bands in existence, and he’d long ago given up on the prospect of ever being able to afford to go to one of their concerts. He practically worshipped them. “How in the hell did you get tickets to––seriously? The pre-tour private concert? Like, _nobody_ gets into that! It’s a guestlist-only thing! How on earth did you––wait, were you about to invite me?”

Dean knew he was babbling, but come on, this was Astaroth they were talking about! And his excitement swelled to uncontainable proportions when Cas’s smiling voice answered “Yes, I thought this might be your kind of thing. It’s about forty minutes’ drive from here and is taking place tomorrow night, starting at eight. Would you like to come?”

“Yes,” Dean squeaked, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“All right, then.” Cas still sounded very pleased with himself. “Come over here around seven tomorrow evening then, and we can leave right away.”

Dean wasn’t sure how he’d survive the next twenty-four hours, but somehow, he did. At six-thirty the next evening he couldn’t restrain himself anymore, and he ran over to Cas’s house and pounded on the door.

Anna opened it, and sighed when she saw him, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Dean headed into the kitchen and found Cas packing sandwiches into a large bag as water boiled on the stove. “I thought I would bring provisions,” he explained. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you? I made five different kinds of sandwiches, so you’ll hopefully like at least one of them. There’s egg-and-watercress, peanut-butter-and-blackberry-jam, provolone-and-prosciutto, tomato-basil-mozzarella, and apple-and-nutella. I hope this is acceptable.” He sounded almost nervous. “There’s also pomegranate-lime juice to drink, and I’m bringing tea in a thermos to keep it warm. You didn’t already eat, did you?”

“No.” Dean couldn’t keep a huge grin off his face. “This... this is great, Cas. Wow.” A tiny part of him was thinking: _If this is what ‘being courted’ is like, then maybe I don’t mind it that much._ But he didn’t say it, instead offering “Can I help with anything?”

“No, no, I’ve got everything under control,” Cas said tensely. “Just stand aside.” Dean did so, and Cas dashed around in a flurry of activity, packing the juice and the last sandwiches and pouring the tea into the thermos, with a touch of milk and sugar, of course. Finally he was done, and he picked up the heavy canvas bag with a steely gleam in his eye. “Let’s go.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Dean responded with a mock salute, and they headed out to the car. This time, it appeared, they were going in Anna’s Kia. Dean didn’t even care that it was such a girly car. He was so excited about Astaroth that he couldn’t get annoyed by anything right now. He’d even completely forgotten about how awkward their last encounter had been, although as they pulled out into the street and he watched Cas’s half-terrified half-determined driving face, it suddenly struck him that he felt weirdly comfortable around the other guy. He had kind of been expecting to feel... well, not comfortable. But, Dean reflected, digging out a sandwich, nothing really seemed to have changed.

When they arrived at the venue, a suitably shady-looking underground club with a big guy in a suit guarding the entrance, Dean was so excited he thought he might faint. As they approached the guard, Dean clutched Cas’s elbow and hissed “Do you even realize what a big deal this is?!”

Cas frowned down at Dean’s hand, a frown that looked oddly like a smile. “I don’t know. Excuse me, I have to get out our guest passes.” They stopped in front of the guard, who raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but when Cas reached in his pocket and withdrew two black cards with embossed silver script, the guard examined them, nodded, and stepped aside. Dean tried taking long shallow breaths to keep calm.

Inside, the party was in full swing, and Dean found himself relaxing a bit when he realized it was really just like any other club. Cas didn’t seem to feel so at home, though, glaring disapprovingly around at the crowd and sticking very close to Dean’s side. The band was nowhere in sight, but after about half an hour they came out, and Dean screamed himself hoarse with excitement, joining in the whoops and cheers that filled the small space. When the music started, Cas looked cornered, and soon disappeared in the direction of the men’s room.

By ten o’clock, Dean had downed a couple of beers (of course he had a fake ID – who didn't?) and was probably the happiest he’d been in months. Epic rock ‘n’ roll, good drinks, an exclusive party with tons of hot girls dancing all around him––could it get any better? He didn’t think so. Where was Cas? Dean eventually spotted him browsing on peanuts at the bar, and made his way through the crowd to his friend’s side.

"This is awesome!" Dean shouted to be heard over the music, beer in hand. "I didn't think this was your kind of thing."

Cas, who had been staring vaguely in the direction of the band with a glazed expression, replied "No, it's not."

"Oh." Dean paused, shrugged, and took another swig of beer. "Hey, how did you get on the guestlist anyway? It’s super hard to get into this event."

"My dad managed it."

"How?" Dean settled himself on the next barstool.

Cas lifted a shoulder, clearly not interested in the subject. "He can do stuff like that."

"I never see your dad around," Dean mused. "What does he do?"

"I'm not surprised you don't. He keeps to himself." Cas had neatly avoided the question.

"What's his name?" Dean pursued.

Cas finally turned his blue gaze directly on Dean with a frown. "Why all the questions? Are you more interested in my father than in me?"

"No way!" Dean protested automatically, and then caught himself. "I mean, damn it, not that I'm interested in you. I just have to hang out with you because you're the guy with the tickets."

Cas's lips pressed together briefly. "Yes," he said gravely. "Of course. This is merely an arrangement of reciprocal convenience. You get to attend the event, and I get to be with you for a little while."

Hearing their respective motivations laid out so starkly, Dean felt ashamed. Not knowing what to say, he finished the rest of his beer in one gulp and clapped Cas a little too heartily on the back. "C'mon, have a drink. What's your poison?"

"I don't drink alcohol, Dean," Cas said reproachfully. Dean sighed. Of course not. Why hadn't he guessed. But before he could gripe about how boring Cas was (not that it was true, he just felt bitchy in the moment), the other boy continued, with narrowed eyes: "Now, could you please explain to me exactly what you find so pleasant about this relentless bass line and the distorted electric guitars?"

Dean chuckled and raised his finger for another beer (thank God for open bars). “Okay, I’ll try. But only if you have some of my beer.”

Luckily, the drinks he’d already had seemed to have lubricated his thinking, because he felt more eloquent than ever in explaining why good old-fashioned rock ‘n’ roll meant so much to him. It got even more fun when he discovered that Cas was a total lightweight, and three gulps of Dean’s beer already had him squinting and arguing with a certain playful belligerence. He kept insisting that he didn’t like the taste of beer, though, so after a bit of thinking Dean ordered him a gin-and-tonic (it just seemed like a very Castielish drink), and despite Cas’s initial demurring, he soon found it to his liking and downed the whole thing.

“So,” Dean found himself earnestly explaining some time later, no longer paying any attention to the music, “I guess the fundamental––the fundamental thing is, is authenticity.” He felt extremely eloquent at having come out with this word, so he repeated it. “Authenticity. Yeah.”

“But all music is authentic,” Cas argued, “If there was authenticity in its creation, and if there’s authenticity in its performance. It doesn’t matter what genre it is.”

“No, you see, it actually does!” Dean replied, excited to share his knowledge. “See, it’s all about the origins, where the music came from. Like, after the seventies, most stuff was made for markets, not for individual listeners anymore. There was like, more, more... damn it, I don’t know the word... but like, less flexibility among types of music and stuff...”

Cas, who had been listening closely with narrowed eyes, suggested “A growing stratification of genre subdivisions within the music industry?”

“Yes!” Dean pounced on this. Although he had only a shaky grasp of exactly what Cas meant by that, it sounded awesome, and that was what mattered. “So all that stuff like pop and new wave and everything was, like, made for the markets, not for the people. These guys––” he gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the band that was still performing–– “They’re throwbacks to the age of individualism.” Again, Dean wasn’t 100% sure that ‘the age of individualism’ was exactly what he’d meant to say, but it sounded so awesome in his mind that he couldn’t _not_ say it.

Nodding proudly at his own observation, Dean finished his beer, wondering distantly when it had suddenly gotten so close to empty, again. Putting down the glass, he noticed how huge and soft and expressive Cas’s eyes were, probably due to the lingering effects of the gin. “Cas, are you drink? Drunk?” Dean corrected himself with what he would never admit was a giggle.

“I don’t know. I think, possibly, yes.” Cas’s voice was low and rough as he slowly turned his own empty glass in his hands before glancing back up at Dean––and yeah, Dean was only now beginning to realize that they were both pretty trashed, and that was probably a problem, because, because... he couldn’t remember why because, but it was definitely a problem. Kind of. Maybe. “Dean?” Cas asked quietly. “May I kiss you?”

Dean frowned and raised an eyebrow at the same time. He always made lots of faces when he was drunk. He waited for the correct argument against Cas’s proposition to come to mind. While waiting, he took another swig of beer. Or, actually, air, because his glass was empty. Right. Yeah.

“I’m not going to make a move on you or anything,” Cas continued, now staring at his glass as if he couldn’t bear to look at Dean. “I just want to kiss you. I just want to know what it’s like.”

Dean was stuck. He felt like a politician being interviewed and having forgotten what his stance was on a particularly thorny issue. He vaguely thought he had some very good argument against kissing Cas, but right now it wasn’t coming to mind at all. So instead he said “Okay, I guess so. Sure.”

It was almost worth it, just to see Cas’s face light up with wonder. “Really? When––now?”

“Uh, yeah. But not here,” Dean quickly added, suddenly remembering that there were people all around them.

“Outside?” Cas almost whispered.

“Okay.” Without another word, they got up and headed for the exit. Dean trailed after Cas, still nodding his head to the music. It was so good. He loved rock ‘n’ roll so much. Maybe he could still convince Cas to love it too. They just needed to have some more awesome in-depth discussions like they’d been having tonight––

While Dean had been thinking about music, Cas had led him out of the club, up the stairs, past the guard and around the corner of the building, where he gently pushed Dean’s back to the cold brick wall and moved up against him, warm and close. Dean liked warm more than cold, so he took a step forward and put his hands on Cas’s shoulders. Although he’d kissed plenty of girls, he suddenly felt like he was back at square one with absolutely no idea what to do. He moved one hand up to Cas’s neck, felt his back hitting the wall again, and let out a soft grunt which was immediately stifled by warm lips. Wow. Dean hadn’t thought it would be so... nice.

Cas tipped his head to one side and kissed Dean harder, and Dean opened his mouth in surprise, granting the other boy access. Cas didn’t take advantage of it too much, though, simply running the tip of his tongue along Dean’s lower lip before continuing his almost chaste kiss. He was clutching two handfuls of Dean’s shirt, as if purposefully keeping his arms between their bodies, stopping the two of them from touching each other completely. Dean missed that full-body warmth and pressure that he knew from kissing girls. Although it was kind of interesting to focus on the lips alone... and now they were gone. Cas gasped for breath into the space between their mouths, eyes glistening in the dark, hands still holding onto Dean’s shirt as if it were his only salvation.

“Thank you.” There was a raw immediacy to Cas’s voice, a closeness that was normally held at a distance by his flowery way of speaking. The words went straight to Dean’s heart. He decided that the blossoming feeling in his chest meant he was feeling generous for allowing the poor guy to kiss him. Dean told himself that was all he felt, denying the part of him that wanted to reach out and spin Cas around and press _him_ into the wall and show him how it ought to be done.


	9. Chapter 9

Later, Dean was completely unable to remember the drive home. Vague images came back to him––kissing Cas, of course, and stumbling towards the car while Cas half-held him up and then helped him into the passenger’s seat––and then some soaring wild unidentifiable music from the radio as Cas drove and Dean dozed on and off, leaning on the window as the car thrummed beneath him. He didn’t remember getting out of the car or into the house at all, but there was one more image he could recall: Cas’s stressed expression and the closeness of his breathing as he maneuvered Dean into bed. Dean remembered mumbling proudly “Hey, you found my room” and Cas answering something in an irritated tone of voice that belied the gentleness with which he was removing Dean’s shoes and jacket. He seemed to hover around Dean’s bed for a bit longer, and Dean comfortably drifted into sleep with the distant pounding of drums and wailing of guitars still echoing in his head.

The next morning, of course, things were bad. And bright. And loud. Dean stuffed his head under his pillow and wished fervently for death to come, but it didn’t oblige him. Finally becoming aware that he was still mostly dressed, Dean emerged unwillingly into the cruel world to find a glass of water on his bedside table. He grabbed it and drank the whole thing in one gulp, then experienced a wobbly moment where he didn’t know if he was about to throw up or not. He didn’t, though, and in a minute he even felt good enough to try standing up.

On his feet, Dean managed to remove his jeans and shirt before his legs decided to collapse, sending him sprawling back into bed again. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute or two more, until the light from the window didn’t feel quite so much like pure torture, and then opened them. The first thing he caught sight of was his jacket hanging on the bedpost and his flannel shirt folded neatly on the foot of the bed. When he sat up, he saw his shoes lined up at the side of his bed.

Dean lay back down and pulled the pillow over his head again so he could think. His brain wasn’t working too well, but if he proceeded slowly and logically he was sure he could figure this out. Deduction number one: he never arranged his clothes that neatly. Two: therefore someone else must have done it. Three: his dad would’ve whupped his ass for being drunk, Sam wouldn’t have been strong enough to lug him around, and his mom would have taken off his shirt and pants too, so it couldn’t have been any of them. Four: therefore it must have been Cas. This was about when the memories of last night began slowly seeping up into his consciousness. Oh shit. Dean didn’t want to think about that right now, but it was hard not to.

A few more deductions: Cas was not used to drinking, so the half-a-beer and gin-and-tonic he’d had last night must have gotten him pretty drunk as well. And yet, he had still managed to get Dean home, up the stairs and into bed, and partially undressed––and had even folded Dean’s shirt. Which, Dean had to admit, was pretty amazing. Not to mention that, despite obviously having the hots for Dean, Cas had restrained himself from taking advantage of his drunken companion, and had even held back from undressing him completely. The more Dean thought about this, the more he realized that Cas was a damn cool guy.

Tentatively, Dean removed his pillow from his face and tried sitting up again. This time it worked much better. Staring at his neatly lined-up shoes, Dean finally let his mind tackle The Big Problem: last night he had kissed a guy. He waited for the horror to strike. After a minute, his stomach started rumbling, and he decided he could rustle up some breakfast while continuing to wait for the horror to strike. Because after all, it wasn’t really worth panicking about what to do if the horror hadn’t even struck him yet. Better to wait, and eat something in the meantime.

Downstairs he found a note from his mom:

_Hey honey, we three are going to check out the town-wide yard sale that’s happening today. You got home pretty late last night so we decided to let you sleep some more. We’ll be back for lunch before going out again in the afternoon if you want to come along.  
Love from Mom_

Good. He really didn’t feel like facing his family with a hangover, even if it was rapidly receding. The only thing Dean could ever eat on mornings after he’d drunk too much was Cheerios, so he made himself a bowl of them and began to eat. Then he suddenly had a thought: was Cas up yet? Despite being officially underage, Dean had dealt with a couple of hangovers before and knew how to handle it, but Cas had said last night that he ‘didn’t drink alcohol’, so he probably had no idea what to do.

The idea came immediately, and Dean didn’t let himself second-guess it. Cas had done enough nice things for Dean; now it was time for Dean to return the favor. Dean didn’t think he’d be comfortable digging around in Cas’s kitchen, so he grabbed a big plastic bag and threw in the box of Cheerios, a half-pint of milk, a bowl, and a spoon. Then he headed next door.

He’d forgotten to check what time it was, but it felt like late morning. Dean knocked on the front door and rang the bell, but nobody answered. When he tried the handle, it was unlocked. Not a surprise––few people around here bothered locking their doors. He pushed it open and softly called “Hello?” No answer. Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.

He was already up the stairs and halfway down the corridor to the right before he realized that he didn’t know where Cas’s bedroom was. The room with the piano hadn’t had a bed, and Dean realized he was simply assuming that Cas’s bedroom was next to it. What if he was wrong? He didn’t feel comfortable sneaking through the whole house. In fact, he was already quickly reaching the limits of his comfort zone, as he remembered that he hadn’t even met the dad yet.

There was one door at the end of the corridor beyond the piano room, but it was locked. Dean sighed, and turned to look back down the hall, his spirits rapidly falling. This was starting to feel like a really stupid idea. Why on earth had he thought it would be okay to practically break into Castiel’s house just to bring him breakfast?

While Dean was berating himself, he suddenly noticed that the door to a room about halfway along the corridor was a crack open. He wasn’t sure why, but he tiptoed up to it and gently pushed it a bit wider.

“Jackpot,” Dean whispered to himself, unable to restrain a grin as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark room and he was able to make out a dark-haired figure mostly covered with rumpled blankets. He could tell from the size that it was too small to be Mike. Dean pushed the door a bit wider and stepped in, not bothering to walk particularly quietly. He didn’t want to spook the guy, after all. But Cas didn’t wake up, only tucked himself tighter into his blanket-cocoon with a low rumble of displeasure.

Dean smiled, put down his bag, and made his way through the dark room to the window, which had heavy curtains drawn across it. Slowly, Dean pushed one to one side, and then the other. Turning around again, he took stock of the room. It was small and slightly musty, with soft surfaces everywhere––a thick shag rug, a medieval-looking tapestry hanging on one wall, the dark paisley-patterned curtains, and of course the piles of comforters on the bed, from which a long reluctant groan now came.

“Rise and shine, sonny,” Dean announced, in slightly softer tones than usual. “How you feelin’?”

A dramatic sigh floated up from the blankets, and they puffed and billowed as Cas turned over, cracking open one large blue eye to balefully regard the intruder. “WrrrrrggghhDean?”

“Yup,” Dean confirmed. “I brought you breakfast. Come on, it’s already...” he approached the bed so he could read the face of the clock on the bedside table. “...almost eleven. Don’t want to let the morning pass you by!”

Cas pulled the blankets up over his head. “I want to let life pass me by,” came a distinct but muffled voice from under the covers.

“Aw, c’mon, it can’t be that bad,” Dean coaxed. “If you tell me where the aspirin is, I’ll go get you some.”

“I don’t want aspirin.” Finally, Cas pushed the blankets down and sat up in bed. He was utterly rumpled, hair sticking up every which way, eyes squinting rebelliously against the light, shirtless and in wrinkled pajama bottoms.

Dean froze for a second, staring at the glaring tousled mess in front of him, thinking _I kissed him last night._ But then he pulled himself together and dug the supplies he’d brought out of the bag. “Here we go: Cheerios, food of the gods. Try some, seriously. Your opinion of life may rapidly improve.”

Cas obediently held out his hands to receive the bowl, and watched blinking as Dean poured cereal and then milk into it. Finally he stuck in the spoon and said encouragingly “Go on, take a bite.”

Cas made a complaining noise, but after a few seconds he seemed to remember how to use a spoon, and began to eat the cereal. After a few bites he stopped and looked up to meet Dean’s eyes, mumbling “Thank you, Dean” before continuing to eat. Dean thought of his own bowl of Cheerios, left half-eaten and forgotten on his own kitchen table. Oh well. He settled down on the foot of the bed and watched Cas eat, squashing the wave of nervousness that wanted to rise up inside him. Why did the other boy’s every motion suddenly seem so momentous? Dean couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way Cas balanced the bowl on his knees, the way his fingers handled the spoon, the way his lips daintily sucked the milk from the spoon... _Goddamnit_ , Dean mentally swore. Had Cas infected him with the gay virus or something? A door slammed somewhere in the other end of the house, startling him.

Cas seemed to sense the turbulence of Dean’s thoughts, for when he’d finished his cereal, he said without looking up, “I suppose you want to talk. May I at least shower first?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess. I don’t know. I mean, of course you can shower, I just... don’t know... if there’s anything to talk about.”

Cas got to his feet and stretched, long and sinuous like a cat. “There usually is. Excuse me for a minute.” He took some clothes out of a dresser drawer and left Dean alone in the room. Realizing he was still hungry, Dean decided to have some more Cheerios himself. He hadn’t brought an extra bowl and spoon, but whatever, he’d just use the same ones. While eating, he spent the entire time trying not to think about the fact that this same spoon had just been in Cas’s mouth, and so of course that ended up being the only thing he could think about.

When Cas returned, freshly showered with wet hair and shining eyes, Dean looked up at him entering the room and found himself thinking, unable to reach his mind’s pause button in time: _Shit. He’s beautiful._

As if Cas could hear his thoughts, he tipped his head a bit to one side and regarded Dean curiously. There was a short silence. “What would you like to say, Dean?” Cas finally asked, very softly.

“I, uh...” Dean’s mind was a blank, but he was speaking anyway. “I kissed you. I mean, you kissed me. But I let you. And I keep thinking I’m gonna freak out about it, but I haven’t yet. It––I actually liked it. But, but I don’t know why we’re doing this. I mean, we barely even know each other. How––how can that become anything?”

“Dean, I am attracted to you. That happens sometimes,” Cas said loftily. “Even when you don’t know another person very well. As for what you are feeling, I can’t advise you there, because I can’t see inside your mind. Are you attracted to me as well?”

Dean stared. At Cas, and then at nothing, and then at his hands. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe? A little bit? But I’m not gay, though! So I can’t be!”

Cas padded closer and sat down on the bed next to him. “Dean, ‘gay’ is not an all-or-nothing scenario. If you don’t want to be gay, you can be straight and make exceptions. Like, for me, maybe,” he added in a barely-there voice, and Dean could feel those blue eyes on him.

“I can’t be with you,” Dean said, and impulsively stood up and started pacing up and down. “I––you––you’re too nice. You’re always doing things for me. Like, you baked me petits fours. And found the hammock frame. And got those tickets to see my favorite band. And introduced me to Schubert and Schumann and Lapsang Souchong. And last night I got totally smashed and you brought me home and took care of me, even though you were pretty drunk too. I’ve had girlfriends, but none of them ever did all that stuff for me. I can’t––I can’t go gay just because you’re nicer to me than any girl ever was!”

Cas frowned. “Dean. I’m not asking you to ‘go gay’. And anyway, you can’t, there’s no such thing. You are who you are. Sexuality is a moot point, and it doesn’t have much to do with this in any case. You only have to decide who you want to spend your time with. What you do during that time is nobody else’s business, and you don’t have to plan it all out in advance. You can just invent it as you go along, and forget all those silly names like ‘friendship’ and ‘relationship’ and ‘romance’. In the end, all that matters is this: do you want to spend your time with me?”

Dean stopped pacing and looked at the ground, and then at nothing, and then at Cas. “Well, when you put it like that... yeah, I do.”

“Splendid.” A radiant smile broke out on Cas’s face. “Now, tell me, Dean: have you ever had scrambled eggs with turmeric? It sounds strange, but it’s really quite delicious. Come on, let’s go downstairs and make some.”

Dean dithered for the briefest of moments, then gave up and followed Castiel––his boyfriend, he thought; he could call him that in his head without telling anyone else––out the bedroom door.

_~ fin ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Now with adorable art by the brilliant djinnanddragons – [don't miss it!](http://djinnanddragons.tumblr.com/post/47738362700)
> 
> [More art](http://lilyletigre.tumblr.com/post/55887496000/a-mock-cover-for-scriptor-ex-machina-and-her-story)! And it is unbe-freakin'-lievable... thanks to [LilyLeTigre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyLeTigre)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Knock It Till You've Tried It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/644610) by [IvyDevoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyDevoss/pseuds/IvyDevoss)




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